Holy Grail
by PsychGirl
Summary: An early view of Jim and Blair's relationship, seen through Simon's eyes...


**Disclaimer**: They don't belong to me, I'm just borrowing them. I promise I'll put them back neatly when I'm done...

Written for wave seven of the Sentinel Secrets challenge on LiveJournal. The prompt was: "What do the folks at Major Crimes think about Jim and Blair?"

Technically pre-slash, but only because that's where everything always ends up in my head. Totally safe for the gen crowd.

* * *

**Winter, 1977**

Simon Banks turned the collar of his coat up, shivering in the early December air, and pulled his gloves off and reached into his pocket to pull out the heavy iron ring. His fingers unerringly found the right key, and as he slid it home in the lock and turned it, he gazed critically at the worn gilt lettering painted on the door. Rossburg Bar and Grill. Maybe Dad would let him repaint that while they were closed over the holidays.

He pushed the door open and slid inside, the cool dim light shining off the familiar and welcoming surfaces. Despite all that had happened, he had to admit that he loved working in this place, loved tending to the family business. Maybe staying in Rossburg wouldn't be so bad, after all…and, if Peggy stayed, maybe…

He shook his head sharply to end that line of thought. He wasn't here to daydream, he was just here to check out the place and make sure that everything was battened down tight before the blizzard threatening the Cascade Mountains hit. As he shut the door behind him the roar of the wind outside was cut off and he became aware of a sound coming from the back storeroom; a repetitive, rhythmic banging. He hurried back there, shucking his coat and scarf along the way.

Sure enough, the lock on one of the casement windows in the storeroom had come loose and the window was swaying open and banging in the fierce wind. He pulled himself up on the ledge, grabbed the window and pulled it closed; inspected the lock. It looked broken. He let go for the moment and hunted around in the storeroom for something he could jam under the lock to hold it closed. On one of the shelves he found a pile of the wooden shims that Dad used to level the tables. He grabbed a few and, after a few minutes' work, had the lock jammed shut. There. That should hold things until the storm was over and he and Dad could replace the broken lock.

He turned and surveyed the storeroom. Some boxes—just containing napkins, fortunately—had been knocked off the shelves, probably by the wind gust that had broken the lock and pushed the window open. There were dirt and leaves all over the floor as well. Simon picked up the boxes, inspecting them for damage, and put them back neatly on the shelf.

He went out into the hallway and pulled the broom and dustpan out of the small closet. As he headed back into the storeroom, he heard what sounded like something scraping at the window. It sounded like something was trying to get in. He dropped the broom and pan and pulled himself up to the window again, but he couldn't see anything, and he didn't want to undo his temporary lock just to open the window. He could hear the gusts howling outside, pushing litter up the empty streets and rattling the bare branches on the trees. Must have been the wind, he thought. He jumped down and set about sweeping up the dirt and leaves.

Once he was finished, he returned the broom and dustpan to their accustomed places and checked the other rooms in the back, as well as the basement. Nothing out of place, everything closed and locked up tight, ready for Nature's fury. He went back into the main room and grabbed his coat and scarf, pulled them on, preparing to leave. Just then a fierce gust of wind shook the front windows and the front door banged open sharply. Two figures stumbled across the threshold into the bar.

Simon's heart jumped into his throat, and he realized that he must have forgotten to lock the door in his haste to get back to the storeroom. He took a deep breath and tried to calm his racing pulse. Probably just two of the bar's regulars, hoping for a little libation before the storm. "I'm sorry," he said, trying to sound older and taller than his 20 years, "but we're not open. I'm just checking the place out before the storm…." He trailed off as one of the figures turned its face to him and he realized that it was a woman, and a stranger to boot.

She had long, black hair and round, dark eyes, and was dressed in what looked like a flannel nightgown, a coarse woolen shawl clutched around her shoulders, thick woolen socks and sandals on her feet. She was shivering. Her arm was curved protectively around the second figure; as she turned Simon could see that it was a young boy with short, dark hair. He was wrapped in a threadbare coat, his bare hands shoved in the pockets. Flannel pajama bottoms showed beneath the hem of the coat, and he was wearing tennis shoes without socks. He was thin, and pale, and bright red spots shone high on his cheeks. He looked at Simon with wide, dark blue eyes framed by thick black lashes.

"Please," the woman gasped, "please help us. My son is very ill. We don't have any place to go. Please, please could we stay here, at least until the storm is over?"

"What's wrong with him?"

"He's got a fever." As if on cue, the kid coughed; a thick, wet sound. Simon hesitated, trying to think how he was going to explain this to Dad, and the woman must have taken his hesitation for refusal, because her dark, expressive eyes filled with tears. "Please," she begged. "We've nowhere else to go."

"Of course you can stay here," Simon replied. He'd figure out a way to explain it. Right now both the kid and his mom needed to get warm.

First things first, though; he shucked off his coat and made sure the front door was locked. He didn't want any more strays coming in. Then he built a fire in the fireplace and pulled two of the low benches around in front of it. The woman tried to help him, but he waved her off. When he was done, she settled gratefully onto one of the benches, clasping her son tightly to her side, basking in the fire's warmth.

Simon ran down to the basement and found a pile of old woolen blankets. He brought them back upstairs and he and the woman made beds up on the benches.

"Now, I want you to get some sleep, sweetie," the woman said to her son, tucking him in to one of the makeshift beds.

"I think we have some aspirin at the bar," Simon volunteered.

"Oh, thank you—" She stopped and looked at him closely. "I've just realized, I don't know your name…that's so rude of me…and you've been so helpful…"

"I'm Simon, ma'am; Simon Banks. My family owns this place."

She put her hand out and gave him a wide smile. "It's nice to meet you, Simon. I'm…Rachel, and this is…this is Jacob." She motioned to her son, staring solemnly at Simon from a nest of blankets.

Simon didn't believe for a second that those were the pair's real names. For one thing, she'd hesitated, albeit almost imperceptibly, when she'd said them. And for another thing, he could tell that black wasn't her real hair color, it was red. He'd been close to her when she'd been helping him make up the beds; he'd seen her roots, could tell it was a bad dye job. But something told him that confronting her wouldn't do any good.

"Do you want that aspirin?" he asked.

"No, thank you," she said, lowering her eyes and fussing with the blankets around Jacob. "I don't believe in Western medicine. He'll be fine; he just needs some sleep."

"You look like you could use some rest yourself," Simon said.

"Yes, I think that's a good idea." She stretched out on the other bench, covering herself with one of the blankets.

Simon went behind the bar and picked up the phone; dialed his home number. His father answered.

"Banks' residence."

"Hi, Dad."

"Simon! I was wondering where you'd got to. Everything okay at the bar?"

"Yeah, pretty much. There was a window open in one of the back storerooms—" and as he said that, Simon paused and wondered if maybe the cause had been more human than natural, after all—"but I jerry-rigged it until we can replace the lock."

"Sounds good. You on your way home, then?"

"Well, actually, Dad…" Simon scratched his head, looking askance at his two visitors. "A woman and her kid came in while I had the door open…."

"People we know?"

"No…" He took a deep breath and lowered his voice. "But, Dad, they look pretty rough. The kid can't be more than seven or eight years old, and he's sick—got a pretty bad cold. And his mom doesn't look much better. I think I should hang out here, with them, during the storm."

Silence on the line. Then his dad cleared his throat. "You're a good boy, Simon," he said.

Simon felt his cheeks warm. "Thanks, Dad. Say, how's Mom doing?"

"She's doing pretty well. She's sitting in the living room, watching the snow fall."

"Tell her I love her, okay? I'll be home in the morning."

"Okay, son. Take care. Call us if you need anything."

"Thanks, Dad. I love you."

"Love you, too, son."

He hung up the phone and went over to check on his charges. Both appeared to be sleeping soundly. He checked the supply of wood and then put another log on the fire. Grabbing his coat, and a few of the blankets, he headed up to the front of the bar and made a comfortable seat for himself in the bay window, looking out on the street. The snow fell heavily, quietly, blanketing everything in white and silence. He pulled a book out of his coat pocket and started to read.

Time passed quietly; Simon looking up from his book now and then to watch the storm. After a while he was startled to see the kid—Jacob, his mother had called him?—wool blanket wrapped around his shoulders, standing next to him and watching him solemnly. "Hey, kid, you should be in bed," he said.

"Not tired anymore," the boy replied, punctuating it with a thick cough.

Simon sighed and closed his book, marking the page he was on. He reached over and laid the back of his hand against the kid's forehead. He still felt pretty warm, although his eyes were not as bright and he looked less flushed. "You want something to drink?" he asked. "Ginger ale or something?"

The kid nodded, a bright smile stretching across his face.

Simon rose out of the window seat and went behind the bar. Jacob watched him quietly as he pulled out a glass, put ice in it, and filled it with ginger ale. He put a coaster on the bar and put the glass on top of it, and then motioned to Jacob. Grinning delightedly, the boy clambered up onto one of the barstools. He lifted the glass in both hands and took a long drink. "Thank you," he said, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his pajamas.

Simon smiled. "You're welcome."

"Have you worked here a long time?"

"Ever since I was about your age. My family owns this place."

Jacob picked up the glass and took another drink. "What are you reading?"

Simon put his book up on the bar. "The Autobiography of Malcolm X," he said. "He was a civil rights activist, a member of the Nation of Islam, but…"

"I know who he is," Jacob said, with some asperity. "Na—Mom took me to a protest where a man talked about him and Dr. King.

"What did he say?"

"He said that both men fought hard for civil rights for Black people, and they were both ass…ass…assassinated, but that the newspapers talked more about what Dr. King said, because he was against violence and Malcolm X wasn't." Simon raised an eyebrow. The kid was pretty sharp. Jacob looked up at him, a slightly abashed smile on his face. "Actually, the man at the protest didn't say that; he used different words, longer ones that I didn't understand. But that's the way Mom explained it to me."

"That's a good explanation," Simon replied. "Malcolm said, 'By any means possible', by which he meant that sometimes those fighting for civil rights might have to use violence. But later, before he was killed, he told people that he regretted saying that, because he believed that it made people think that he wanted to use violence."

"You know a lot. How come you aren't in college?" Jacob asked.

Simon sighed. "I was supposed to be. I was supposed to go to Howard the fall before last. But my mom, she got sick, and we didn't have the money anymore." His stomach growled, and he looked over at Jacob. "You hungry, kid?"

Jacob nodded.

"How about a hamburger?"

Jacob regarded him with those solemn eyes again. "I'm a vegetarian," he informed Simon.

Simon shook his head in wonder. He didn't think he'd even known the word 'vegetarian' when he was eight. "How about a grilled cheese sandwich, then?" he asked.

Jacob's face lit up like a Christmas tree. "Okay!"

Simon grabbed the keys to the kitchen from their hook under the bar and motioned to Jacob. "C'mon, you can help me," he said.

Jacob squirmed eagerly off the bar stool and followed him into the back. Simon switched the griddle on and then turned to Jacob, crouching down so his face was level with the kid's. "This is very hot," he said, pointing to the stovetop, "and I don't want you to go anywhere near it, okay?" Jacob nodded slowly, his eyes huge. "You can help me by making the sandwiches, and I'll grill them." The kid nodded again.

Simon dug around in the refrigerator and pulled out bread, butter, and cheese. He pulled a stool up in front of one of the countertops; he grabbed Jacob under the armpits and swung him up on the stool, and then handed him a butter knife. "You start buttering the bread, I'll slice the cheese."

He found a sharp knife and sliced cheese off the large block, then handed the slices to Jacob who assembled them, with the buttered bread, into sandwiches and put them on a plate. When they had several made up, Simon took the plate over to the griddle, which was now nice and hot, and grilled them. He left a few ungrilled, turning the griddle down to low and putting the plate with the extra sandwiches in the fridge, in case the kid's mom wanted some when she woke up.

He and Jacob carried their plates out to the main room, and he held Jacob's while the kid climbed back up on the bar stool. He topped off Jacob's ginger ale and poured himself a Coke, and sat next to Jacob at the bar.

They ate in silence for a while, then Jacob said, "Thanks, Simon, this is really good."

"No problem, kid."

When Jacob was finished, Simon took their plates into the kitchen. On the way back, he went over and looked out the front window. The storm was still going strong, thick white flakes falling heavily, coating the terrain. He heard Jacob turning the pages of the book he'd left on the bar. "I wish could have taken some of my books when we left," Jacob said wistfully.

Simon went behind the bar again and poured himself some more Coke. "Why did you leave?" he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral.

Jacob's expression immediately became troubled. "I…I don't know," he replied. "Mom just woke me up in the middle of the night and told me we had to go." He sighed. "That's usually the way it happens. Sometimes I get to take a few books, or some of my toys. Most of the time she remembers to pack us some clothes, but I guess she didn't this time."

Simon frowned to himself. Whatever was going on, it didn't sound good for either the kid or his mother. He made a note to himself; he was going to talk to Rachel, once she woke up, and maybe to the police as well. The two of them couldn't just keep running like this.

He grinned as he was suddenly struck by an idea. "Hey, kid, you like comic books?"

"Yeah," Jacob replied, a shy smile spreading across his face.

"Hang on a sec." Simon crouched down behind the bar and started rooting around; after a few minutes he triumphantly pulled a box out of one of the cabinets below the bar. He opened the box and pulled out a sheaf of comic books. "These are left over from when I used to hang out here when I was younger. I'd keep a stash around so I'd have something to read if I got bored. You can have them." He put them on the bar in front of Jacob.

"Cool!" Jacob enthused, flipping through the stack. He pulled one out eagerly. "This guy, he's my favorite!" Simon craned his head to look.

"Daredevil?"

"Yeah! It's so awesome how he has these, like, super-senses! Well, except for his sight, of course. But he doesn't even need it! He's so cool!"

Simon grinned at the kid fondly. "I was always a little partial to The Hulk, myself," he said.

"No, no way, Daredevil's the best. It would be so cool to be able to do this kind of stuff; hear things that are really far away, be able to track people by their smell…" He looked up at Simon, his eyes wide. "Do you think there are really people who have super-senses like this?"

"No, kid," Simon said, chuckling, "I think that's a comic book idea."

But Jacob wasn't looking at him anymore, his attention back on the story. Still chuckling, Simon went over and stirred the embers of the fire, put another log on. He checked on Rachel, but she was still sleeping, her breathing deep and regular.

Jacob was still engrossed in the Daredevil comic when he went back up to the bar. Simon picked up his book, but didn't really feel like reading. Instead, he pulled a stool over to the far side of the bar and turned the television on, keeping the volume low so he wouldn't wake Rachel.

He flipped through the channels, stopping when he found the Army-Navy game on CBS. It was nearly the end of the third quarter, and things were looking bad for Army; they were down 14-3. "Kid, you want to watch the game?" he asked.

"Nuh-uh," Jacob replied, not even looking up from the pages of the comic book. "Na—Mom says football's just a crypto-fascist metaphor for war."

Simon rolled his eyes and turned back to the television. It looked like Army had just punted, after going three-and-out. Navy took possession of the ball and moved up the field, but just as they were within about 15 yards of Army's end zone, the center muffed the snap to the quarterback, and Army recovered the fumble. From what the commentators were saying, it sounded like Army was benching their starting quarterback and sending in the backup. Well, Simon thought, he certainly couldn't do any worse.

The first play from scrimmage was successful, a run of about eight yards. On the second down, the quarterback shot a nice little pass to the tight end, threading it beautifully between two defenders. Simon raised his eyebrows, impressed. The second-stringer was actually pretty good.

Play was halted as the third quarter expired and the teams switched sides. Six minutes later, the second-stringer had floated a long, lovely pass to the wide receiver, leading him almost perfectly, and, after the extra point, the score was 14-10. Navy received the kickoff and managed to control the ball for nearly the rest of the quarter, but Army did prevent them from scoring a touchdown, and the field goal attempt went wide. Army got the ball back with less than two minutes left and only one time out. It didn't look good, Simon thought.

But the quarterback seemed to be operating on an almost supernatural level. His handoffs to the running back were perfect, and he seemed to be able to find receivers no matter where they were on the field or how closely guarded they were. He hadn't thrown an interception or an incomplete pass since he'd come in the game. He moved them steadily down the field towards the end zone.

"Kid, you're missing a really good game here," Simon said. He glanced over at Jacob, who looked up from the comic book.

Army was at the 12-yard line, on fourth down, with 45 seconds left in the game. The quarterback took the snap and backed up, looking down the field at the end zone, searching for a receiver. Simon inhaled sharply as the Navy safety slipped his blocker and headed for the quarterback. The quarterback was turned away, looking downfield for a receiver; there was no way he was going to see the safety in time to avoid the sack. It looked like the game was over for Army.

But somehow, incredibly, the quarterback seemed to know the safety was there, even though he couldn't have seen him, not even out of his peripheral vision. He dodged the safety's leap and took off running; spun around another lineman, graceful as a cat; and sprinted across the goal line with 10 seconds remaining. The extra point was good and it was Army 17, Navy 14.

The Army fans were going crazy in the stands. Army kicked off, but the defense smothered Navy's attempt at a Hail Mary, and the game was over. The cadets surged onto the field, howling in joy.

Simon turned to look at Jacob again; the kid was staring at the screen, eyes huge. He grinned, turning back to the game. Crypto-fascist metaphor for war, my ass, he thought.

The on-field commentator was on the screen now, pulling the quarterback over to stand next to him. The quarterback was tall, about six feet; and rangy. Simon thought that he didn't look much older than him. His dark brown hair was cut in the standard cadet buzz. Despite his long limbs and the hint of teenage awkwardness that still hung around him, there was a natural grace and ease in his bearing, almost feline in quality.

"And here's the architect of that amazing comeback by Army, junior Jim Ellison," the commentator said. "Jim, tell us how you did it."

"It was really a team effort, Todd," Ellison replied politely. Simon had the feeling that the cadet was profoundly uncomfortable being the center of attention.

"But you clearly were having more success than Johnson today."

Ellison shrugged. "I was just lucky. Everything seemed so clear; I felt like I could see the whole field, hear every sound. I was able to focus in on the receivers and get the ball where it needed to go."

All of a sudden, Simon noticed that the room was filled with a clear blue light. Must be reflection from the snowfall outside, he thought. Something moved in his peripheral vision—reminding him oddly of a jungle plant—and he turned his head to look outside, but the look on Jacob's face captured his attention.

The kid was still staring at the screen, but his features were suffused with a joy and a look of wonder that was beyond reason; at once ancient and new. On the screen, Simon saw, Ellison was answering another question, looking into the camera with an endearingly shy half-smile; he had piercing blue eyes that seemed to be boring straight into the kid's dark blue ones.

And it seemed to Simon that he could literally see a bond between them, a bright shining link that hummed and undulated, connecting the two. He felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. "Who is he?" he whispered, not sure why or what he was asking; not sure that Jacob would even hear him.

But the kid did. He turned luminous blue eyes to Simon, his face still alight with that amazing joy. "He's my Holy Grail, my life's purpose, my reason for being," he replied, and Simon noticed that his voice was deeper and more resonant than it had been earlier. "He's everything I'll ever want or need."

Simon felt a sharp pang for a moment; a sudden, fierce desire for that kind of knowledge, that kind of certainty, that kind of union. And, in the next moment, with a perceptible snap that was neither audible nor tangible, everything had returned to normal. The clear blue light was gone. Nothing moved at the edges of his vision. The post-game interviews had given way to commercials. And Jacob was swaying on his bar stool, eyes closed.

Simon scrambled forward and caught the kid just as he slid off the stool. Lifting the slight body easily, he noticed that Jacob was burning with fever again. He carried the kid over and put him back in the bed he'd been in earlier, covering him securely with the wool blankets.

Jacob stirred, restless; a frown creased his forehead. He grasped at Simon's sleeve and muttered something. It sounded like he was pleading. Simon went to the bar, picked up the Daredevil comic book, and put it in Jacob's hands, settling the covers back over him. The frown left Jacob's face and he sighed, smiling slightly; relaxing into the nest of blankets, clutching the comic to his chest.

Simon stood and rubbed a hand over his head, down the back of his neck, slicking the hairs back down. The kid was feverish, delirious; that would explain the weird statements, his changed voice. The light—that was because of the snow outside, for sure. The bond, the connection between the kid and Ellison…well, he must have imagined it. Chalk it up to an adrenaline rush at the end of the game. But it was fine. Everything was normal now. Nothing strange or otherworldly had happened at all.

He washed the dishes, and then puttered around the bar for a while more, before banking the fire and settling down in the window seat, blankets wrapped around him. He slept soundly, dreamlessly, and woke as the sun was just gilding the tips of the mountains. The storm had passed, and the snow lay clean and pure over the streets and rooftops.

Simon stretched, quietly; he slid out of the window seat and went to check on Jacob. Laying the back of his hand on the kid's forehead, he was relieved to feel that he was much cooler than he'd been the night before. Looking over at Rachel, he saw that she was still asleep. He stirred up the fire and put another log on.

He shrugged his coat on and wrote a quick note to Rachel and Jacob, telling them that he was just going to go check on his parents; when he got back, he'd make breakfast for the three of them. He placed the note between the two benches and weighed it down with a bottle of whisky.

It didn't take him long to walk home; his dad was already up, shoveling the front walk. His mom was still asleep. He helped his dad clear a path from the front door to the street, then, while he hunted for some old clothes that would fit Rachel and Jacob, his dad filled a canvas bag with food – bread, peanut butter, apples, cheese, and some candy bars.

He trudged back to the bar, carrying the bag of food and the clothes. But when he opened the door he could immediately sense that something was different. The benches had been moved back into place and the blankets were folded neatly in a pile at the edge of the hearth. The fire had been banked. And, on the bar, a bottle of whisky anchored a white piece of paper.

Rachel had written the note on the back of the one he had left. "Dear Simon," he read, "thank you so much for your kindness towards me and my son. We deeply, deeply appreciate you and your family's compassion and understanding." She hadn't signed it. Underneath her note was written, in a childish scrawl, "Dear Simon, thank you for the Daredevil comic. I had fun talking to you. I hope you get to go to college someday."

He dropped the bag of food and the clothes on the floor and sprinted out the door. The only tracks he could see were his own; of Rachel and Jacob he could see no sign. Nevertheless, he stood outside the bar for a long time, hoping that Rachel would change her mind and come back.

**Fall, 1992**

Simon was reading through the file in his hands when he heard the knock on the door. "Come in," he called.

The man who entered would have looked taller if he hadn't been slouching. He stood, offhandedly, in front of Simon, his eyes fixed on a point to Simon's left, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. He was dressed in worn, torn jeans; a faded t-shirt and sneakers; a baseball cap sloped backwards on his head. He wore a handlebar moustache and a goatee that looked about twenty years out of style, and an earring in his left ear. Simon realized, with a jolt of annoyance, that he was chewing gum.

The reports he'd been reading all claimed this guy was good. Good, but erratic; brilliant at times but seriously out of control and self-destructive at others. Chief Warren had figured this would be a fitting challenge for his newest Captain. "So," Simon began, "Ellison, James Joseph. Promoted to detective a little over a year ago; been working with Vice since then. Why do you want to come over to Major Crimes?"

Ellison gave a one-shouldered shrug, still not meeting Simon's eyes. "Cases sound more interesting," he said, laconically.

"We work quite a bit with the other divisions: Homicide, Narcotics, Vice, even Juvenile now and then. Think you can play nice with the other detectives and officers?"

"Everything'll be fine if they just remember to leave me alone," Ellison replied coldly.

Simon stepped up, his face close to Ellison's. "Listen up, Detective. I'm not a micro-manager; I've got better things to do with my time than baby-sit my men. But I do expect honesty and a good-faith effort to cooperate and get along with others. There are no prima donnas here, get it? I don't care how much of a hotshot you were in Vice. If you're going to work in Major Crimes, you'd better lose the attitude."

Ellison's eyes, a piercing blue, flicked over and met Simon's. Simon saw defiance, and under that, fear and uncertainty. It cemented his impression of Ellison as someone who had talent and skills, but who was just looking for an excuse to cut loose. Not someone you wanted on your team. In Simon's experience, these were the kind of guys who pushed the line at every opportunity; who were insubordinate; who ended up causing major headaches for their captains.

But there was something about the guy…against all his better judgment, Simon's gut was telling him to accept Ellison, take a chance on him. He sighed and flipped through Ellison's file again. His eye lit on something and he looked up.

"You were in the Army?" he asked.

Ellison nodded. "Rangers, and then Special Ops."

A dim memory stirred at the back of Simon's brain…a football game, on the television in his parents' bar…and a second-string quarterback who had been a hero. "Did you play football at West Point?"

"Briefly. End of junior year and most of senior."

Simon leaned back against his desk. "I think I saw you play. On TV. It was 1977 – you came off the bench and scored two touchdowns in the last quarter."

Incredibly, the hard-ass exterior dissolved; Ellison gave him a sudden smile and Simon clearly saw the echo of the young, lanky boy he had seen on TV, flushed with triumph. "That was a good game," Ellison said. "Unfortunately I turned my ankle and had to sit out the following year's game. Navy kicked our asses, 28-0."

Simon grinned in commiseration. "That must have been tough."

"Well, we had a good run in the late 80's, sir, although they beat us last year. Hopefully this year will be different."

Simon silently noted the "sir" with surprise. Maybe Jim Ellison had the makings of a good detective after all. "Okay, go talk with Rhonda, my secretary; she'll assign you a desk in the bullpen. There's a staff meeting tomorrow morning at 8 am sharp."

Surprise flickered in the pale blue eyes; surprise, and something Simon couldn't quite identify. "I'm in, then?"

"You're in."

And, as fast as that, the cocky, arrogant exterior was back. "Right. See you tomorrow morning, Cap'n." He turned and left the office without waiting for a reply from Simon.

Simon sighed. He hoped he hadn't just made the biggest mistake of his career.

**Fall, 1996**

Simon stood in front of the elevator to the garage, glancing back into the bullpen as he waited. Jim was talking to the kid—Sandburg, he'd said his name was?—who was leaning up against Jim's desk. As he watched, a wide, brilliant smile broke out on the kid's face, pulling an answering one from Jim; something that was nothing short of miraculous, Simon thought, given the way that Jim had been acting just a few short days ago. As he watched, Jim put a hand on the kid's back, guided him through the bullpen and towards Personnel. Simon couldn't help thinking that there was something unusual, yet familiar, about the connection between them.

The elevator opened and he got in, punching the button for the basement level. Hadn't Jim said the kid was his cousin's son? Family ties. That would explain it.

He grinned to himself as the elevator doors opened and he headed for his car. He didn't think Jim's cousin's plan was going to work. Enthusiastic or not, he didn't see the kid lasting more than a week. One firefight—or, more probably, a few days of exposure to Jim's driving—and he would be heading back to his nice, safe academic world, where he could do his grail searching from the library rather than the streets of Cascade.

Still, there was something about the kid…something about his eyes…

He shook his head, starting the car, and turned his attention to his impending meeting with the mayor.


End file.
